...the best stories are not about lost loves or Paris, not to my taste anyway. I prefer adventure fare, like the one where I was hitchhiking between Greensboro and Atlanta and a trucker picked me up at a rest area in Anderson, SC, and would not let me out of the truck. He drove and drove; the whole time the trucker is telling me stories about time travel and how he knew how to find me because he had already done so in the past, several times in fact, and how he knew just when I would escape, at the welcome center on the Alabama state line, but that it did not matter because he could just go back in time and pick me up over and over and there was nothing I could do about it; it was just my fate. Sure enough, at the Alabama welcome center, he went to go pee and left the door unlocked, so I made a run for it and found an abandoned old antebellum house in ruins to hide in until I thought he would be gone. The house smelled funny and was littered with newspapers from 1986. Later, I flagged down a state trooper and told him how I had been abducted, but as far as I know, they never found that trucker and I am left to wonder if he is still out there repeating that same little six-hour window of time, kidnapping me over and over again, ad infinitum.
Of course, I don't tell it as pretty as The Dolor would.
